


Jockstraps and Heels

by eeyore9990



Series: December Gift Fic Spree [4]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Creeper Derek, First Time, High Heels, Jockstraps, Locker Room, M/M, Rimming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-04
Updated: 2014-12-04
Packaged: 2018-02-28 04:46:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,056
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2719244
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eeyore9990/pseuds/eeyore9990
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles has the perfect plan to make Derek see the error in his creepy stalker ways.  Of course it backfires.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Jockstraps and Heels

**Author's Note:**

  * For [fanficsagogo](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=fanficsagogo).



> December fic spree, day 4: Gift for fanficsagogo! 
> 
> Happy December 4th!

"I’ve fucking got it!" Stiles crows, hands thrown up in victory as he jogs around the locker room before practice.

"What’s that, the clap?" Jackson asks, because he’s an ass. 

Stiles, of course, ignores him. Because he’s the bigger man. 

"Nah, dude, haven’t slept with you, so I’m still clean of STIs." Well, shit, maybe he’s not so big after all. Eh, he can live with himself.

"What have you got?" Scott steps solidly between Stiles and Jackson, ever the peacemaker. 

Back on track, Stiles grins wickedly and hefts his bag, unzipping it enough to show Scott the two gems laying right on top. “Miss D’Vine got them for me.”

Scott lets out a whistle at the sight — a pair of strappy, glittery, red, ridiculously high-heeled sandals — and then looks back up at Stiles, a little confusion wrinkling his puppy face. “I didn’t know you were into that, man. I’d totally have helped you look. You know that.”

"What?" Stiles blinks at Scott, a little taken aback, and then groans when he figures out what Scott means. "No, dude, they’re not for me. Well, I mean, obviously they’re for _me_ , but not in a ‘I totally want to follow in Miss D’Vine’s footsteps’ kind of way.” He pulls the shoes from his bag and swings them by the ankle strap. “They’re for when Derek inevitably shows up tonight, lurking menacingly in the _high school boy’s locker room_ with all the underage boys in it.”

"We’re not underage, though," Scott says, face clearing up before confusion shadows it again.

"No, _we’re_ not, but Liam and Mason and fifteen of the other _very definitely minor_ lacrosse players are.” Stiles shoves the shoes in his locker, slamming and locking it in one smooth motion honed from years of practice. “Look. It’s for his own good. Eventually someone’s going to report him and then he’ll have a felony misdemeanor charge on his record.”

"To go along with all those felony murder charges," Scott says, deadpan.

"Hey, those were totally dropped. His record’s clean. Ish." 

"Hurry up, losers!" Jackson yells from the doorway, and Stiles spends a long minute fondly remembering the year and a half the asswipe spent in London before he follows Scott in jogging out the door. 

Practice waits for no man. Or wolf.

—

Stiles is so exhausted after practice that he actually forgets his plan… right up until he opens his locker to grab his towel and sees his new shoes sitting all sexy and coy on the shelf. “Oh, you beautiful bastards, come _here_ ,” Stiles coos, pulling them out and setting them on the bench. 

He pulls off his sweat-drenched shorts and shirt, then wrestles his pads off. When he’s down to his jockstrap, he gives a mental shrug and plops his mostly bare ass down on the bench and lifts one leg to shove his foot into the sandal. 

Only it’s not as easy as he’d expected, and his toes get all tangled up in the straps that zigzag all the way down the shoe. 

With a grunt, he tries again, with better results. His toes all poke out the end like they should this time, but he finds out quickly that the dainty little strap and buckle aren’t exactly user friendly. Even with his skinny fingers, it takes him forever to get the first shoe buckled. By the time he’s got the second shoe secured around his right ankle, the rest of the team is trickling out, already showered and dressed and ready to head home.

A few people give him odd looks, but honestly? The entire fucking town knows Stiles, knows how off-the-wall he can be. He’s that ‘odd duck’ the old ladies like to shake their heads over. And it’s fine. It works for him.

Hell, it’s kept the entire fucking town from figuring out Scott’s furry problem, so. Win!

Stiles stands up on the heels and takes two wobbly steps before his left ankle collapses and he falls into the bank of lockers with a loud bang. It… hurts like a bitch, actually, because whoever labelled the ‘funny bone’ was a lying sack of shit. 

"Stiles?" he hears someone choke out, and he looks up to see… 

"This is your fucking fault," he mutters, pointing one bony finger at Derek while swiping the involuntary tears from his eyes with the back of his other hand. "If you weren’t such a creepy stalker, I’d never have bought these shoes. And now look at me! I’m going to be all _bruised_ tomorrow.” 

Stiles grumbles a little more under his breath as he rubs his elbow, checking his arm for more lasting damage. He’s so wrapped up in the sizzling pain still racing up and down his arm that he doesn’t notice Derek moving closer until he’s _right there_. 

"Stiles," Derek breathes again, and this time it’s enough to pull Stiles out of his own headspace. 

He looks over at Derek — who’s _wow_ so close now, holy shit — and sees the way Derek’s mouth is just barely parted. His teeth gleam behind his upper lip, and there’s a rosy hue to his stubbly face that isn’t usually there. In fact, he looks a little off altogether, what with how dark his eyes are. In fact… his pupils are about twice their normal size, and it’s not like it’s dim in the locker room. The lighting is actually harsh, something Jackson bitches about incessantly.

And because Stiles is conditioned now to assume that Derek is basically in a constant state of near-death, he steps forward, somehow graceful on the heels in his panic, and is lifting Derek’s chin, turning his face from one side to the other. But even as he does so, Derek’s fighting against his hold. 

"What is it? Wolfsbane? Mistletoe? Did someone magically whammy you? _Did you have sex with a strange woman?_ " The questions pour out of Stiles, and if the last one is slightly accusatory in tone, well. That’s not really his fault, is it?

But Derek doesn’t answer, doesn’t even seem to be paying attention to the fact that Stiles is saying anything. Which… Rude.

No, he’s staring down at Stiles’ feet, licking his lips, and then raising his gaze like he’s going to make eye contact, only to abort mission halfway up when his eyes drift down again. He’s almost giving Stiles a half-body once-over, which is just kinda… huh.

Huh.

Because it’s not a once-over at all. It’s like a six-times-over at this point, and those cheeks are growing darker by the second. Not to mention how Derek’s gone from just gaping at Stiles with his mouth hanging open to swiping his tongue over his bottom lip every other second or so. And his breathing has almost doubled from its normal rate — shut up, yes, Stiles knows the cadence of Derek’s resting breathing rate — and his breaths are fucking bellowing out of his chest. He’s panting like a goddamn Olympic sprinter, actually.

Or a dog who’s seen something they really, _really_ like. For instance… Stiles in strappy red sandals, holy shit. 

"Holy shit," Stiles mutters, damn near feeling his hair fly back from how very dramatically his plan had backfired. The heels were supposed to irritate Derek into realizing the error of his ways — preferably _before_ Stiles’ dad got called about the man peeping on underage kids at the high school — not turn him on to the point where he’s breathing all hot and heavy on Stiles.

Not that Stiles is _at all_ opposed to his plan backfiring. Dropping his eyes to the place where Derek’s dick is pushing obviously against the fly of his jeans, Stiles licks his lips and sighs. Not. At. _All._

"Jesus, Stiles." The words sound forced, like they’re squeezing through a too-tight tube or something. Like Derek’s throat is closing up, maybe, _just from the sight of Stiles_.

Fuck yes. _Finally._

"You like ‘em?" Stiles asks, preening and sort of cocking his knee up to allow his shoe to catch the light even better. "They’re new."

"This isn’t," Derek says, reaching his hand out and hooking one finger in the waistband of Stiles’ jockstrap.

Which is pretty much when Stiles realizes he’s been standing around with his ass hanging out this whole time. Yeaaah. He’d totally face-palm over that, but apparently it’s working for him, so.

Derek tugs on Stiles’ jockstrap again, hard enough to unbalance Stiles, who falls against Derek’s chest like one of those ladies on the covers of those books his mom liked to read. As soon as he lands, Derek pounces, dropping his head to mouth at Stiles’ throat and manhandling him until he’s turned around, back to Derek’s chest. Derek licks along the line of Stiles’ neck, then the top of his shoulder before doubling back and sucking a mark into the knob of bone at the top of Stiles’ spine.

"Dude," Stiles gasps, limbs already feeling noodly. 

"Sorry," Derek says, though he really doesn’t _sound_ like it. “Sorry,” he repeats, and this time he even takes his mouth off Stiles’ body long enough that it’s not muffled into his skin. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t—”

"Oh, fuck _that_. Yes, you definitely should. So much. Whatever you want.”

"Yes?" Derek whines, stubble scraping deliciously against the back of Stiles’ neck.

"Yes! With emphasis. Consider that to be bolded, italicized, _and_ underlined. In twenty point font.”

Derek stops listening to him the instant the yes is out of his mouth, though, because he’s halfway to Stiles’ ass before the word ‘font’ trails off into a hitched breath. He pushes Stiles forward, sliding down to his knees behind Stiles, and begins trailing his fingertips over where the straps are cutting into Stiles’ ankles even as he lips at Stiles’ ass. 

"Bend over." Derek’s voice sounds urgent, and well, Stiles was sorta feeling shaky anyway, so he does as bid.

He bends over, arms locked straight as he plants his palms in the middle of the bench. Pressure on his ankles has him spreading his legs, and he swallows a moan as a vivid mental image of what he must look like right now rises in his mind’s eye. Bent over in a locker room wearing only a jockstrap and high heels. Sweet Jiminy Christmas, all the best porn starts like this.

As soon as he’s arranged to Derek’s liking, Derek just _dives_ in, pressing his face right up in Stiles’ ass and licking straight at his hole, making Stiles shout and his knees go fucking _weak_. But Derek’s got him, his hands vise-like bands around Stiles’ thighs, holding him in place. He licks and sucks and slurps at Stiles’ ass, eating him out so sloppily that his beard is creating all sorts of havoc that Stiles just _knows_ he’ll still feel tomorrow.

Not that that’s a problem.

What _is_ a problem, though, is his jockstrap, because he’s got a cup wedged under there too, and it’s a lot like he thinks a cock cage would feel like, only more painful. So Stiles lifts one hand long enough to rip the cup out of his jock, flinging it across the room. He shoves the material out of the way then, and reaches down between his thighs, gritting out the word, “Spit.”

Derek, bless his furry little soul, doesn’t even question it, just pulls off long enough to spit in Stiles’ hand before going back to _ruining him for life._ Stiles brings his wet hand to his dick and jacks himself off, fast and ruthless, chasing the orgasm that’s boiling in his gut.

When Derek’s hands clench impossibly harder on his thighs, and a little, muffled whimper bounces off the lockers around them before he goes still behind Stiles, mouth open and _sucking_ on Stiles’ ass, Stiles comes like a goddamn freight train. His hand slips straight off the bench, and he just knows he’s going to face-plant straight into the tile floor, but Derek’s there, catching him and tugging him backward until his spit-soaked, gloriously tender ass is nestled up against Derek’s sopping wet lap.

"That…"

"Fuck…"

Derek cuts them both off then, fingers cradling Stiles’ jaw and turning his head to draw him into a kiss that’s slightly problematic — Stiles _knows_ where Derek’s mouth has been, thanks — but mostly just hot like burning.

He’s so going shoe shopping again tomorrow.


End file.
